


to the curl of your lips

by icingsugar



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, pre-reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22150888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icingsugar/pseuds/icingsugar
Summary: wasn't it usually the cat that scratched?
Relationships: Ladybug/Chat Noir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 215





	to the curl of your lips

Chat Noir's fingers, bunched into Ladybug's underwear, stopped as they grazed past her thighs. He was staring at a spot on her hip bone, somewhere that would usually have been covered by her jeans or superhero costume, and smiling.

"What?" she said when he didn't continue. "Why'd you stop?"

His left hand travelled back up her thigh — curious, not teasing (Ladybug would know) — and rubbed his thumb against her hip. “You have a birthmark here.”

“I do?” She lifted herself into a sitting position, and peered down at his hand. There, below his thumb, was her little birthmark. It looked a bit like a ladybug spot, she noted with amusement. “Huh. I never noticed,” she said, and lowered herself back to the bedspread.

He came down with her — his head, at least: bowing to her skin and grazing his lips against her birthmark; the ladybug spot that only Chat Noir would see. She reclined back into the pillows, eyes falling shut, and sighed. He kissed that spot reverently, but was that really so remarkable? He kissed her like that, all soft lips and loving moans and stuttery breaths, when he was on her collarbones, on her nipples, on the flesh of her upper stomach, and around her navel. Ladybug learned to love — no, it took no learning at all, in fact — the way he kissed her. Washed his love all over her with his mouth. Their post-battle hotel room escapades were creeping up to the top on her list of favourite things.

(She said a quick apology to sewing, which was stuck in the rank just below making love to Chat Noir).

He nibbled at her skin. Ladybug’s toes curled.

Despite herself, she giggled. “Are you planning on staying there the whole night?”

He laughed against her. “Do you want me here the whole night?”

“I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong,” she said, “but isn’t there… anywhere else… you’d rather be?”

Emphasising her point, she took one of his hands — the one not on her hip bone — and, ducking it under her briefs, pressed his fingers between her legs.

She felt his breath turn sharp. Chat Noir pulled away — mouth and fingers alike (though his fingers, the ones he had touched her with, were glossy and wet). 

Red-faced, Chat Noir finished taking off Ladybug’s underwear. She tried not to look too smug.

He discarded them behind him, and stooped over her body once again, but instead of her hip bone, his mouth hovered above where his fingers had just been. 

_ Yes _ , she thought, sinking into the pillows.  _ Finally. _ .

Her eyes snapped open. Beneath her leg, as she had tried lifting it over her shoulder, was the fabric of his white overshirt.

“Too many clothes,” she said through gritted teeth. An authoritative tone — her superheroine tone, as she liked to call it — was under threat, and he seemed to know  _ exactly _ why.

“On you?” Chat Noir asked, reached up, and slipped his fingers beneath the underwire of her bra. She frowned; he grinned.

“On you.” Ladybug nodded to the shirt. “Take it off.”

“Afterwards.”

If the superhero tone wasn’t working, Ladybug would do the next best thing — she whined. What was the point in handmaking replicas of their masks so they could  _ finally _ touch each other's skin if he kept his clothes on?

He chuckled, and, nonchalant enough to take her by surprise, used the pad of his thumb to rub her clit. "You left scratch marks last time."

"I… ah… I did?" 

She forced her eyes to stay open. Perhaps if she stared at the lamp on the nightstand, she could think back to their last night together, instead of the tip of his thumb, its tight circle, the rough callus that must've come from playing an instrument, or a sport or— 

_ No. _ She was trying to remember something.

Something about scratching… something about their last time…

Perhaps something about Chat Noir on top of her and her thighs flexing around him and her nails digging into his back.

"Ooh." She closed her eyes against the lamplight. "Sorry about that."

But still, she smirked, because what she remembered with far more clarity was the vibration of groans right against her collarbone as her nails etched her signature into his skin. Chat Noir made it clear how he cherished her marks of love, but his job? Not so much.

Reaching over, she pulled at his collar. "Please? I'll be careful this time."

He sighed. Chat Noir straightened, took his hand away from her, and did as she wished. His overshirt first, which he shrugged off in the vicinity of her underwear, then his dark undershirt, whose ascent she followed with her lip between her teeth.

Ladybug's eager hands shot forward to run over his chest, but he caught them midway, and, with no effort at all, pinned them to her sides.

She blinked. “Hey.”

“No scratching.”

“I told you I’d be careful!”

“I know, I’m just making sure.” He readjusted himself between her legs, to her chagrin still pinning her wrists down. To her delight, however (or at least her desire) he dipped his head down until it hovered right above her sex. “Ready?”

She frowned down at her hands, and wiggled her fingers around.

But then Chat Noir let out a gust of breath that made her shudder, and she didn’t give a fuck about her hands. Hold them, pin them, tie them up — Ladybug didn’t care anymore.

“Always am,” she said, and before she could even try lifting her hips, he pressed his tongue onto her.

Ladybug hissed. Her fingers twitched — around now, she’d bury her hands into his hair. Pull a little, rub a little, coax out his moans (and purrs, if she was lucky) to join the sound of his tongue laving at her arousal. His grasp on her wrists was unyielding, and only tightened every time she resisted. He dragged his mouth up and down, down and up, all over her clit. 

He stilled. She held her breath. Stole a glimpse of him between her. 

Then she was throwing her head back, for he had slipped his tongue inside her.

_ “Oh!” _ She jolted, back off the mattress, breasts thrust up. Again, another try at her wrists, but he wouldn’t budge. She settled for a soft hum, and kept her legs parted — even if she wanted, more than anything, to clench around him, keep him in his place, hold his wet tongue against her with certainty. “Oh… do that again.”

He may have chuckled, but Chat Noir’s mouth was too preoccupied to make much coherent noise, other than licking up his Ladybug. He did it again, just as she demanded — nosing her clit, closing his eyes, burying his face deeper between her thighs as he pushed his tongue as far inside her as she could. Her mouth dropped open, silent and wanting, and she almost threw a hand it before she embarrassed herself.

Though she couldn’t, so she moaned (it was  _ pornographic _ and she wanted to  _ die _ ) his name with the air left in her lungs.

A week used to be nothing, to her. In fact, a week was rather frequent, right at the beginning — patrols didn’t exist, and akumas only showed up every few days. 

But now?

Their week apart was the hardest week of her life.

He’d treated her well the last time they were together, taking his time with his head between her thighs, and holding her ankle over his shoulder while he entered her. Chat Noir, always a gentleman, treated her  _ very _ well indeed — well enough for her to have clawed down dorsal flesh.

He treated her almost too well. She spent the whole week waking up bleary, heart pounding, and soaking through her underwear.

As he sucked hard on her clit, as she pulled at what she could of the bed sheets, as she cried out his name over and over and rocked her hips onto his face, Ladybug was still bleary. Her heart was still pounding. She was still soaking — but this time, in his mouth rather than her underwear.

The sounds he made were obscene, but he didn’t seem to mind. With his hands busy making sure  _ hers _ weren’t, he couldn’t keep her spread out like usual (one palm against each thigh, pushing her legs apart, holding her open as she came and rank her up as she twitched and squirmed and begged for her kitty to keep going), but he was ever the optimist, an opportunist, and used his mouth on her inner thighs, too.

A suck on her thigh — a sweet, low hum. A suck on her clit — a jerky, ruptured whine. Ladybug knew she had a pattern, and she knew he had it memorised. He played her like a music box, and she would happily play him her melody if he kept lapping her up just like that.

“So eager, My Lady,” he groaned.

“Can you blame me?” she said, wiping sweat from her hairline.

“Oh.” He glanced up at her, and his gaze may as well have sent her into cardiac arrest. “Who said I was talking about you?”

Then he dove further between her thighs, upper lip a hood above her clit while his tongue — oh  _ God _ , his  _ tongue _ — flicked over it. If she could’ve covered her mouth, she may have not screamed as loud, but with the way his grip was bruising around her wrists, something told Ladybug he wanted her to scream.

Distantly, she thought about the people in the rooms around them. She was sure hearing a girl yell out Chat Noir’s name in the throes of passion mustn’t have been the most pleasant of experiences.

She rocked harder against him, and he murmured something about staying still, but it didn’t sit quite properly in her head. Her face heated up, her stomach boiled, her thighs quivered. Desperately, she tugged at her wrists.

“Please,” she begged softly. “I wanna hold onto your hair. I’m gonna come.”

His eyes snapped open, and immediately, Chat Noir let her right hand go. Ladybug kept her promise of being careful, and her hand dove for the back of his head. His own moved beside his mouth, spreading her apart a bit more.

“ _ Ohhh God _ .” She bit down on her lower lip. “I-I…  _ Chat Noir…” _

She writhed as she hit her orgasm, squirming towards him, then away from him, making him chase her with his tongue as she shuffled higher and higher in bed, sensitive and aching and with tears pricking at her eyes with how  _ good _ it felt.

Ladybug caught her hand before it threatened to move to his back. She brought it to the side of his face, instead, and stroked her index fingers against his cheekbone. A bit of wetness smeared against her knuckle from the corner of his lips — whether it was his saliva or her arousal, she didn’t know, but the chance of either one of them made her flush.

He licked his lips. She swallowed a gasp.

“See?” she panted. “I didn’t scratch this time.”

Chat Noir smiled. “Thank you.”

“You love it, really.”

He grinned at her, and, with no warning, pressed a hard kiss to her clit.

Ladybug shot back. “Chat Noir!”

“Heh, sorry.” He rested his cheek against her thigh, tilting his head, and gazed up at her. “You love it, really.”


End file.
